by Andy Remic
‘What you mean, “your” little toy?’ said Mongrel.
‘Is mine.’
‘I ... I thought it belong to Spiral.’ Mongrel smiled carefully.
Simmo shook his bullet head. ‘No. ‘S mine.’
‘You mean it’s your HTank,’ laughed Jam. ‘As in, ownership documentation is stamped in your name, you have full financial possession, the HTank does in fact belong to you.’
‘No. But it still mine.’
‘OK, OK. Look, Sarge, it’s a very nice tank. We were very impressed. Is it operational yet?’
‘Only on The Sergeant’s say-so,’ rumbled Simmo.
‘Whatever you say, buddy.’ Jam grinned, placing the cigarette between his lips, squinting through the smoke, picking up his ammo and leading Mongrel to the door. As he was stepping through the portal, he turned. ‘One last thing - if I ever need back-up, I’ll be sure not to give you a fucking call.’
Simmo scowled, but Jam and Mongrel had gone.
Spiral Mainframe
Data log #12522
CLASSIFIED SADt/6345/SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT
Data Request 324#12522
SAD
Search and Destroy Missions
When Durell and Feuchter’s warship, currently tagged as Spiral_mobile, was destroyed, hundreds of genetically enhanced Nex soldiers were also destroyed. However, even without the guidance of their masters -the true enemies of Spiral - the Nex had a network of systems in place across the globe which enabled them to continue operations and pose a minimal threat to Spiral agencies worldwide.
SAD missions were instigated: teams of DemolSquads whose mission objectives for the past year had been to search out and completely destroy Nex nests and relevant minor military outposts.
The SAD missions have been extremely successful in minimising current threat from the Nex. Although all the Nex soldiers have not been destroyed, intelligence shows that they have almost been terminated. They are currently running at a 4% strength when compared to infestation numbers this time last year.
Most recent find:
Brazil, 18km east of Humaita Team:
Jam, Slater, TT [Demoll2]
Nex destroyed:
40 genetically altered soldiers
Current SAD team leader: Jam [Demol_H]
Keyword SEARCH>> NEX, SAD, SPIRAL_sadt, DURELL, FEUCHTER
The Hangar was huge, housing perhaps a hundred helicopters of different configurations and eight SX7 Harrier Jump Jets. Jam, Slater and TT stood, staring out at the rain beyond the corrugated walls and waiting for the Comanche pilot to arrive. They all carried huge canvas sacks - clothing, provisions for their operation in the former Yugoslavia, guns and, of course, ammunition. Slater had already overseen the loading of three KTM 800Vi motorcycles, which had been strapped unceremoniously beneath the Comanche in lieu of missiles, and all the group needed now was a pilot.
Jam smoked, watching the rain and listening to Slater and TT’s idle banter. Slater was a huge man whom Jam had fought with on many occasions and who reminded him a little of Mongrel - both were tufty-haired and sported missing teeth from too many NAAFI brawls, and both took shit from no man. But whereas Mongrel was pure animal, very much in the mould of Sgt Simmo, Slater had more of a philosophical air, although it took a lot to get to know that side of him, and in truth it only rarely appeared after seventeen pints of lager.
TT, on the other hand, was a complete contrast. She was ex-Sniper squad and had moved sideways to the Demolition Teams, or DemolSquads as they were affectionately known. Tall, lithe and muscular, she was extremely reserved and aloof, rarely speaking unless it had to do with work. She had high cheekbones and short blood-red hair, pale blue eyes, and full lips hiding neat little teeth. She was oblivious to Jam’s charms - much to his consternation - but had proved herself on many occasions with her skill with a rifle and telescopic sight.
‘You OK, Jam?’
‘Mmm,’ he said, flicking his cigarette butt out into the rain and watching the heavy downpour destroy the filter. Jam turned, gave Slater a small grin, then said, ‘You check the SAD records? I have - just for my own personal amusement, you understand.’
Slater nodded. ‘Current statistics show Nex strength running at just four per cent of this time last year when ... well, when you blew their warship to Kingdom Come.’
‘Ahh, the old bomb in the bag,’ said Jam, his eyes hard. ‘Makes you come over all warm and gooey inside. What the fuck does four per cent represent, anyway?’
‘Statistics,’ mumbled Slater. ‘There are no current numbers ...’
‘Fucking suits and their fucking statistics,’ snarled Jam. ‘Real figures would had been more use - not four fucking per cent! What’s four per cent of an unspecified amount? Jesus! Now, this is our chance to take out a few more unfortunates ... drop it to two per cent of whatever, eh, mate?’
‘Jam ... better be careful we don’t become complacent.’
Jam winked. ‘Hah! We eat the fuckers for breakfast nowadays.’
Acting on tip-offs and local military intelligence, Jam, Slater and TT were due to investigate claims of a relatively small Nex ‘nest’ in Slovenia, close to a village named Trebija. The Brazil6 SAD mission had been the most recent large ‘find’, and SAD missions were becoming more and more infrequent and thus required fewer and fewer resources from Spiral. A large nest would entail complex military missions with interlocking paths from anything from three to twenty DemolSquads; but for a small gig like this? Jam was happy to do it on his own.
‘Probably be nothing. Rice or something on their scanners,’ growled Slater.
‘You’re so pessimistic,’ said Jam, lighting another cigarette and cursing himself. He was trying - very unsuccessfully and at the request of Nicky, his wife-to-be - to quit. He inhaled the deep blue smoke and slapped Slater on the back, having to stand on tiptoe to do it despite his own six feet of height. ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me yet if you’re coming to my wedding!’
‘I have to check my diary,’ said Slater.
‘You still sulking because I asked Carter to be my best man?’
‘No,’ said Slater sulkily.
‘Come on, buddy, you know I’ve been friends with Carter since fucking kindergarten. We’ve done some shit together, fought some fucking battles, been through some real hard times. And I know you and me are friends, but you have to accept my decision like a real man, not sulk like an arse ...’
‘It’s just...’
‘What?’
TT sidled closer, a smile across her full pouting lips.
‘It’s just…’
‘Spit it out, man,’ snapped Jam.
‘He thinks if he’s the best man it’ll help him pull one of the bridesmaids, get him a bit of pussy for a drunken night of debauchery with fruit, or whatever it is that rubs Slater up the right way.’
‘Thanks, TT,’ spat Slater, reddening.
‘Don’t worry.’ Jam winked, slapping the huge soldier on the back again. ‘If it is a bit of pussy you’re wanting, then Jam is the man to ... to ...’ He stared hard at TT. ‘What? What’s that look?’
TT ran a hand through her cropped hair, then smoothed her eyebrows which were immaculately plucked. ‘Do you realise that I went to prep school with Nicky?’ she said softly. ‘We shared a dorm, were very good friends, in fact.’
Jam stared hard at her.
‘We used to have midnight feasts, sneak out into the village and meet the boys, got up to all sorts of mischief-me and your soon-to-be wife.’ She smiled sweetly at Jam.
‘You’re fucking with me, right?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Stop it, because you are fucking with me.’
‘Why would I lie? You know I’m friends with Nicky, you’ve seen me talking to her enough times. We joined up together.’
‘She never told me that.’
‘Why would she? Do you know everything about your woman?’ She gave a very dark smile. ‘Because I doubt it very much, Mr Jam. But t
he things she has told me about you!’
The pilot chose that moment to arrive. He was a slim man, with bright eager eyes and the disposition of a puppy: always eager to please. He wore his hair long and generously curled like a middle-aged pop star or footballer, and it lapped around his shoulders, buoyed on a current of air, hairspray and expensive Italian conditioners. To Fenny, Hair Was Life. Which was why it had been with great irony that God had made this man bald at the crown - this Deity of Hair, this ultimately vain and narcissistic male of the species. And Jam secretly knew that if Fenny had decided to shun his flamboyant locks, to cast aside his self-love and hair-lacquer abuse, then God would have shown forgiveness and allowed him the mane of a lion.
God punishes those who punish themselves, he mused.
‘Hiya, Fenny,’ grinned Jam, slapping the pilot on the back and watching with obvious amusement as his tresses bobbed - as if he were auditioning for a TV advert for the ultimate prodigal pelt.
Fenny carried his HIDSS helmet under one arm and surveyed the group with a convivial and easygoing gaze. This and other friendly characteristics had earned him many friends among Spiral, despite his love of getting drunk and pouring his pint into soldiers’ laps.
‘Your team going to Slovenia, Jam, you womanising old scoundrel?’
‘Yeah,’ drawled Jam.
‘I think you’ll find that there’s lots of suspected Nex activity in the city of Ljubljana.’
‘Possibly.’ Jam grinned, his arm still draped around Fenny’s shoulders. ‘But I think you will find that it isn’t enemy territory until we turn it into enemy fucking territory. Now, I have a question for you, my old friend.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I don’t want you to become tetchy, but every time I see you I always ask myself the question: why don’t you shave off your curls? Get a good Number One, sorted.’ Jam puffed at his cigarette.
Fenny looked a little confused.
‘Why would I do that? Why would I want a ... ugh ... a shaved head?’
Jam spluttered. ‘Well, mate, it’s just your curls ...’
‘Yeah?’
‘And, and ... the curls bobbing, and the hairspray ... it makes you ... makes your curls ... like ... with their bobbing ...’
‘Yes?’ Fenny was grinning broadly but with an iron twinkle in his eyes.
‘If he had a pint, I’d choose this moment to take a step back,’ rumbled Slater. He had walked home from the NAAFI on too many evenings with a wet beer-stinking crotch and a strand of stray curl caught between his knuckles where Fenny had been too swift and elusive to suffer Slater’s left hook.
‘Well,’ continued the politically inept Jam, ‘I just thought you looked a bit, y’know, like a mad clown.’
‘Leave him be,’ said TT, sidling over. She pushed Jam aside and planted a large kiss on Fenny’s lips, making the pilot grin even more broadly. ‘I like the curls. Reminds me of—’
‘A poodle?’ suggested Jam.
‘No, a real rock star,’ crooned TT. And she slapped Fenny’s behind. ‘Now, are we mounting up and shipping out into the rain, or are we going to stand here all day and exchange pleasantries?’
‘Always the spoilsport,’ sighed Jam.
Fenny climbed into the cockpit and engaged the engines. Jam and Slater grinned at each other, as TT muttered, ‘You guys are just so savage - you gang up on people and try to tear them apart...’
‘Me?’ squawked Slater.
‘Ha,’ said Jam. ‘That’s just fucking life.’
They followed Fenny and climbed into the Comanche’s modified cockpit. As a war machine, the originally specced USA Comanche could only carry two pilots, whilst the Spiral Comanche VQ7s had a host of modifications to bring them in line with the requirements of anti-terrorism operations.
Once its occupants were settled, the Comanche leapt into the air, slicing up through the rain with the satisfying roar of twin LHTec engines, leaping into the darkened iron bruise of clouds and heading south, away from the nearby city of London and towards the dark churning mass of the English Channel. Fenny’s curls bobbed from the exposed rim of the HIDSS helmet in time with the howling engines.
Southern Europe was still warm at this time of year, the sun beating down from a cloudless late-autumn sky. The Comanche landed in a remote mountain location, trees whipping and bowing under the onslaught of the war machine’s rotors.
Jam, Slater and TT climbed free, stretching wearily after the insane strike across the English Channel, France, Germany and Italy. They walked through long grass, ducking beneath the idling rotors, dragging their kit and piling it beneath a large cherry tree. Slater moved off to release the KTM 800Vi motorcycles from beneath the Comanche as Jam lit a cigarette, checked the magazine on his SA1000 and walked out beyond their LZ, a hand shading his eyes. He propped his SA1000 against his thigh as he peered off into the hazy distance. He was sweating within seconds of landing under his heavy clothing, and his gaze took in the steep slopes leading to woodland and distant villages of white buildings with red-tiled roofs - a mountainous landscape of jagged grey peaks filled with a fluid beauty of deep green and the distant glimmers of a winding river.
Jam coughed on his cigarette smoke, his mind settling into a businesslike mode now that he was here on the ground, ready for work and ready for the killing to begin. His lips tightened as he thought of all the friends he had lost at the hands of the Nex; many good men and women, cut in half with machine-gun bullets, throats slit, limbs strewn around after massive terrible detonations. The war had become personal, and so Jam’s hatred was personal - he would hunt the Nex to the ends of the earth and slaughter them in their sleep.
Slater approached. ‘We’re rocking.’
Turning, they watched the Comanche roar and leap into the air, huge rotors glinting in the sun, camouflaged flanks gleaming dully as the huge machine hovered for a moment, banked, and disappeared with a high-powered engine whine. The trees settled, the late-summer scents of the woods and the cherry trees drifting across to the small DemolSquad. The grass hissed in the breeze as Jam cocked his SA1000.
‘Time for business,’ he said.
Darkness was falling as Jam slowed the KTM on the winding unmetalled stone-littered road which sliced between woodland trails. Tyres crunched, skidding a little on the loose stone, and TT and Slater pulled up close behind him. The three bikes burbled quietly, their 800cc engines ticking over, stealth exhausts electronically stealing any sounds the machines might make and so rendering them, to all intents and purposes, silent.
‘Everything OK?’
Jam said nothing. He sat, eyes surveying the incline ahead of him. Heavy woodland, conifers, beech and spruce sloped away to either side, their bases covered with the detritus of a hundred years of fallen branches and leaves. The Spiral operatives watched a deer, brown with soft white spots, wander aimlessly and pause, its head coming up to gaze at them with large oval brown eyes before it sprinted off between the trees, disappearing like a drifting ghost.
Jam gave the military hand signal for silence.
They waited, Jam watching the trail, eyes slowly scanning the tree line ahead and to either side where thick boles were scattered. Perfect ambush territory, his brain was telling him. Perfect...
With the unclenching of his fist they moved off, slower now, more warily. Something had spooked Jam, and Slater had known his friend long enough to trust the man’s instincts. A drinking hedonistic womaniser he might be, but there were two things he was certainly good at: killing and, more importantly, keeping his men - and women - alive. It was an unspoken talent. A gift.
They cruised, moving higher into the mountain pass, the roads becoming more and more pronounced as Vs of worn stone shrapnel, the slopes steeper and more rugged, the trails more and more disused. As darkness fell Jam pulled to the side of the trail where a footpath or deer trail of some kind crossed the rough stone road. Jam pulled his bike onto the trail and, ducking branches which whipped against their faces and heavy canva
s combat jackets, they rode through the woods until they came to a huge natural outcropping of massive boulders, some larger than a house and balanced precariously on one another to form a natural wall. Jam pulled his bike up underneath an overhang of rock, beneath a boulder so big that it would crush the three Spiral operatives like insects if it fell. Jam killed his engine, and Slater and TT followed suit. They dismounted, warily, and unslung their weapons, Jam his SA1000, Slater his trusty double-barrelled shotgun with machine-gun modifications, and TT her Barrett IV sniper rifle with digital sights.
They made a cold camp, seating themselves on a huge log which Slater dragged laboriously into the small clearing, and Jam spun his ECube into life. Dropping it in front of him it halted, spinning a few inches above the ground on a cold cushion of matrix. Tiny sections opened from the alloy chassis and a projection spread like liquid across the ground - a contoured map of their surroundings optically linked to the advanced AGPS signals that the ECube was intercepting.
Jam picked up a stick and poked at the green and blue image. ‘We’re here.’ He lit a cigarette.
Slater, who had opened a huge tin of B&S and was shovelling the fodder into his maw cold, nodded in agreement and pointed with his fork. ‘The white blobs signify intelligence sightings?’
‘Aye. If we cross-section them it gives us quite a narrow field of operations - if you consider the contours of the terrain. If, for example, we give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that they are using bikes like us - then there are only limited paths open to them. Even less so if they are using larger, heavier vehicles.’
‘You want to go in on foot?’ asked TT.
Jam nodded. ‘We’ll take it more carefully from here on in.’
They moved with the precision and care of hunters. Slowly, deliberately, examining all the data available to them. Through the darkness the trio moved, in a wide triangular formation where they could provide one another with covering arcs of fire if necessary, but not so close that a single grenade or burst of machine-gun fire could take the whole team out.